


Paint It Orange

by OneShotRevolt



Category: Tekken (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, TK6 canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneShotRevolt/pseuds/OneShotRevolt
Summary: Jin Kazama receives a surprise visit from his old rival, who's intent on getting him to give up his war, his company, and his lifestyle. Hwoarang comes armed only with his honesty and some threats to the well-being of Jin's motorbike.
Relationships: Hwoarang/Kazama Jin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	Paint It Orange

“Do you wish the report in person, sir, or shall I leave it in your in-tray?”

Jin blinked and looked away from the window.

“The… what?”

“This is the mechanical maintenance? For the Enigmas?”

“Oh-” Jin came over and stretched out a hand. “I’ll take them directly.” He saw the flicker of disapproval in his aide’s face. Well, whatever. It was easier to look over reports on motorbikes than it was stomaching the figures that came in on military assets and the war. “Wait, what’s this?!” Jin pointed at the page.

“Hm?” The aide adjusted his glasses and looked at the report. “The mechanic in charge suggested a new coat of paint.”

“Why?! I had that coat done a few weeks ago! And look at the reimbursements list! There’s orange paint on there! They’re not really thinking of- Have they already started?! Is the mechanic still-?” Jin hissed in exasperation. He grabbed coat and hit the call button on the private elevator.

“Sir...”

“I’ll sort this myself, provided it’s not too late. The bike was fine the way it was, why do people have to meddle with things?!”

The elevator arrived and Jin stepped in, pulling on his long jacket. As the door closed behind him, his heart ached. His heart ached and his head hurt. It happened nearly all the times these days, but especially when he distracted himself. If he wasn’t feeling the full weight of the atrocities he was ordering, then this snaking guilt came out to strangle him. It was like that look his aide gave him – the ‘how dare you look away’ look. Or maybe he only imagined it. He pushed himself into the corner of the lift, with his back to the mirrors, so that he didn’t have to see his reflection. Some days it was easier to think about paint on bikes than dead people. He put his hand to his chest. His heart throbbed with this terrible, terrible pain. He was calling himself a coward over and over to the four small walls around him. In this private lift there were no cameras, and he had the seclusion to let his grief put deep rivets in his face and fold his body over in pain. He held the motorbike report in two shaking hands and stared at it while the numbers swam and his eyes misted up. He focussed on the orange paint. What a stupid thing to order. Those bikes would look so ridiculous in orange. He sniffed back a laugh at the idea.

He wiped his eyes and stood taller as the elevator arrived at one of the underground parking lots. His face became its usual impassive slate. He stepped out into the concrete brutalist garage. State-of-the-art motorbikes and the Zaibatsu’s own line of sports cars lined the lot. This was his personal collection. There were another six floors for military assets they kept on site. His smart shoes clacked as he walked, echoing around the hard angles of the spacious underground. It was the voices of his own conscience that dragged at him though, like a sodden, wet, rope heavy about his neck.

“Thought that might get you here, Kazama.”

Jin froze. Then he whirled on the spot, coat fanning out as he did. His eyes narrowed. There, impossibly, leaning on his thankfully-still-black motorbike, was Hwoarang. He had a pair of sunglasses pushed into his outrageously dyed hair, and some zippered tanktop that clung far to much to be practical, and belts done jauntily all up his legs, and goddamn spurs on his goddamn high-heeled boots. Jin stared at the spurs. And the belts. And the cocky way Hwoarang leaned his chin on his hand.

“Nothin’ to say?” Hwoarang gave him an annoying grin.

Jin nodded at the bike. It was an enormous thing with double headlights under a smooth, aerodynamic windshield, and tyres that nearly came up to his thighs.

“You’re leaning on something that costs more than you can probably swindle in a year.”

“Ooh, ouch. Such a cold welcome after all this time. And after I so nicely fixed up your motorcycle for ya.”

“What did you do?” Jin asked warily. He circled around the bike. It was an easier topic of conversation to focus on. And besides, he liked that bike a lot…

“Oiled it, fixed up a few basic hitches of daily maintenance that any self-respectin’ bike owner would do themselves…” Hwoarang said more slowly. Jin folded his arms and gave a huff. Hwoarang laughed. “Want me to show you how to maintain your bike properly, Kazama?”

“No.” Jin was sullen now. Sullen and still in enough shock that he felt faintly breathless. Hwoarang shouldn’t be here. _He_ shouldn’t be here. None of this should be happening. Maybe it was a dream.

“Don’t be such a prat, come over here.” He beckoned Jin over with a familiar gesture. It felt just like the old days. It felt like when Jin had been more human. He liked that playful tone. He liked that Hwoarang spoke to him easily and with no deference or respect. He liked that he could fractionally imagine that this was then and not now, populated still with people that he hadn’t banished to the peripheries of his life. It must be a dream.

He came over to Hwoarang’s side. He smelt of engine oil. A spanner appeared in his hands and Hwoarang let the weight of it slap slowly into his palms as he talked. There was a thin shaft of light coming through a high garage window that kept catching in his hair and setting it blazing cherry red, and touching his face to turn his jawline gold. Did people look like that in real life? It looked like the sort of picture confined to old photographs and films on the big screen.

“Kazama, you listenin’?”

Jin blinked a little stupidly.

Hwoarang gave a sigh of exasperation. “Okay, let’s try again. Come here, you keep shufflin’ back.” Jin came closer. That engine oil smell again, and grease. There was a dark smudge of it on Hwoarang’s cheek. “Know what these are?” His nudged Jin and pointed at two cylindrical bits of metal.

“N… no.” Jin murmured. He was the CEO of the Mishima Zaibatsu… if anyone saw this…

“Those are carburettors. These have to sync for your bike to run its best. It’s basic stuff, you don’t need an engineer for this. You see these valves?”

“Not really…”

“You adjust this screw here, which will alter the butterfly over here-”

“Butterfly?”

“Butterfly valve. Not a real butterfly.” Hwoarang clicked his tongue at him and rolled his eyes. He jostled his shoulder and Jin felt warm and foolish all the way through. “You’re hopeless at this. Put your mind to it, I know you got focus when you want it. You’re single-minded in a fight, apply some of that here.”

“I’m not always good at concentrating on things. With martial arts its different.”

“Gimme your hand here,” Hwoarang said. Jin hesitated. “Come on now, Kazama, you ain’t shy when you’re puttin’ your fist in my face, now give it here.” Jin let his hand be taken. Hwoarang held it in his and placed Jin’s fingertip on top of the screw. “That’s the one you want to adjust.” Hwoarang’s hand was warm and surprisingly gentle. “You got it?”

Jin looked at him. Turning his head to Hwoarang put their faces a lot closer than Jin had expected. He got a look straight into those hazel eyes. There was more detail in them than a dream could conjure.

“Is this real?” Jin whispered. Hwoarang raised an eyebrow. Jin took his hand away and put a little distance between them.

Hwoarang turned back to the bike and began to make the adjustments himself. “Yeah, it’s real, Kazama.”

Jin shrugged out of his long coat, and then his blazer. He inspected a spot of grease that had ruined the cuff of his shirt. He gave a huff and began rolling up his sleeves. “Why are you here?”

“Your regular mechanic contracted a bad case of concussion, caused by an erroneous, unclaimed leg that hit him clean in the head. It’s a sad case no one’s been able to solve. I’m just fillin’ in for the day. Stepped up to help out, y’know. Damn, the Zaibatsu pay is pretty good though.”

“Why are you _here?_ ”

Hwoarang paused. “Damn that stare you give me always makes me feel like you’re drillin’ holes in my skull. Why you always gotta be so intense with everythin’, Kazama?”

Jin said nothing. Hwoarang wiped his hands on a rag and sat back on the floor. He leaned against the bike behind them. Jin joined him. Why was it easier to relax on a hard concrete floor where everything was grease and grime? He supposed the present company might have something to do with it.

“How many o’ these things you got!?” Hwoarang tapped his knuckles on the other bike.

“Five…” Jin murmured, voice patched with guilt. “Of that model, anyway…”

“ _Five._ Hell, Kazama, and you don’t even know how to fix _one_!”

Jin shot him a glare. A silence fell between them. Jin looked at his hands. He never really minded silences, but he could see Hwoarang fidgeting in the corner of his vision.

“I’m here for _you_ , of course, idiot,” Hwoarang huffed. “You’re makin’ dumb choices, so I threatened to spraypaint your favourite toy orange to get you out your ivory tower and back down with us plebs. There are thousands of people who’d kill for info like that, by the way. Paint a bike orange and the Zaibatsu CEO will appear. You got a target on your back but you still come runnin’ this hunk of junk? You should be embarrassed, Kazama. Gotta work on that self preservation instinct of yours.”

Jin wasn’t very interested in self preservation. He didn’t tell Hwoarang that though. It would only hurt him and cause trouble. Besides, he had a feeling he already knew.

“I’m in a resistance, you know,” Hwoarang said. He said it in that light airy way that was meant to sound casual, but Jin immediately knew was deadly serious. “I’m fightin’ against you.”

Jin kept his eyes on a small pool of oil beneath the bike. It shimmered like rainbows and iridescent crow feathers. “I thought you hated the army.”

“I do,” Hwoarang’s voice was just a little cold. “But this is different. And besides, there wasn’t much choice. Sometimes you just have to do what’s right. Know anythin’ about that?”

Jin turned away. “I’m not explaining myself to you.”

Hwoarang punched him hard on the shoulder. Jin grunted in pain. He glared at Hwoarang and rubbed the spot he’d punched.

“The world’s burnin’ out there for you, Kazama, and you ain’t got five minutes to tell me why?” Jin made to get up. Hwoarang put a hand on his wrist and stopped him. “You’re always runnin’ off,” Hwoarang said more quietly. “I been chasin’ after this enigmatic Kazama Jin since I was a seventeen-year-old kid who got bested on my own streets.”

“I didn’t best you…” Jin murmured. He couldn’t help but correct the remark. It wasn’t like Hwoarang to forget a thing like that though, and Jin saw his face crack into a grin as he drew him back into conversation.

“You’re always one step ahead of me, takin’ all the fun with you, Kazama.” Hwoarang’s smile faded a little. “Whenever I catch up, you’re out of reach again. Somethin’ else always drags you away. I remember you didn’t even want me to help when your grandfather’s men had you surrounded. But we got each other’s backs, remember? So what gives? What’s changed? Who’s this guy runnin’ the Mishima Zaibatsu? ‘Cause I seen a lot, but I ain’t never seen you like this.”

Jin didn’t know what to say. What could he say? Even if he explained why, and even if he was believed, it would never be justification enough for Hwoarang. It just wasn’t in his nature to accept something like that. He would try to deter him, and he might even succeed, and then all the suffering so far would have been for nothing. This was precisely why he’d distanced himself from everyone in his old life. This was exactly why he’d had to-

“Hey.” Two fingers touched his cheek. Hwoarang turned his face gently towards him. “Losin’ you there for a moment, Kazama,” he said in that quiet, uncharacteristic tone he sometimes took. It made Jin’s stomach lurch. “Where do you go?” Hwoarang somehow said it with wonder, and with searching eyes. Jin couldn’t believe that despite it all, Hwoarang was still sitting here, waiting for the reasonable explanation from the friend he thought he knew.

Jin’s posture went stiff. He pulled his chin away. “You should go.”

“Yeah, I should. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Jin stared forward. He’d come down here to escape the war, but found it here anyway. “I’m not going to justify it. If that’s what you came here to hear, then sorry. You should go back home, and keep fighting.”

Hwoarang swivelled on the floor and sat cross-legged. “Kazama. Listen, you idiot. I can’t express to you how pissed off I am with your shitty choices, how angry I am at what you’ve done, how furious I am with what I have to see each day, how much it fuckin’ hurts to see what I see and to know that you’re the one causin’ this, but I didn’t come here to hate you, I didn’t even come to get your confession or justification or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. I came because… because I knew it would be like this.” He gestured vaguely at Jin.

Jin looked down at himself, in his slightly spoiled suit, sitting on the concrete floor of the corporation that had destroyed his father and destroyed his grandfather and destroyed his great-grandfather.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Hwoarang blew out air. “You’re losin’ yourself, Jin.” Jin blinked at the used of his personal name. It made him shiver. “I’m in that dark alleyway and you’re slippin’ out of sight again. And you know me, I just gotta run after ya.” Hwoarang tilted his head, trying to catch Jin’s eye from under the flop of his fringe. “You’re on a warpath. And not just out there.” He leaned forward and placed his hand over Jin’s heart.

Jin looked at him with desperate eyes. He wondered if Hwoarang could feel how fast his heart was beating under his hand. He leaned into the touch just a little. He didn’t deserve this ray of light, this hope that Hwoarang always injected into his darkness.

Jin’s head drooped. “Let me go.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“I’m not coming back from this.”

He could feel the confusion in Hwoarang’s body language, as he tried to work out if he meant, literally, figuratively, morally, spiritually? His warm hand was like a tether through which Jin could feel his friend’s troubles.

“There ya go, talkin’ like the future’s all done ‘n’ dusted. I can’t stand types like that. Y’know what the future is, Jin?”

Jin was distracted by the hand on his chest, the way Hwoarang said his name again, and the way his Hwoarang’s hair fell to one side when he tilted his head like that.

“What is it…” Jin said, playing along with whatever this was.

“Not – fuckin’ – here! That’s what the future is.” Hwoarang fixed him with passionate ferocity. “Undecided! Some other day! Somethin’ that’s gonna change, dependin’ on _what you do now._ It ain’t a given. You’re sittin’ here givin’ me some death-row speech like the war’s over. The war ain’t over Jin. It’s still goin’ on out there. You might think it’s some choice you made in the past, but for some people it ain’t even done its worst yet. When someone dies tomorrow, that ain’t a decision done and made by Kazama Jin six months ago. That’s an event Kazama Jin coulda stopped today.”

Jin turned away, shrugging off Hwoarang’s hand. “There are things you don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand!”

“Things you’ll never believe.”

“Like you sproutin’ wings ‘n’ horns?”

Jin went rigid. His body stopped like a clock. His eyes were blown wide. His breath has paused in his lungs.

“Yeah,” Hwoarang said. He scooched round and plonked himself opposite Jin this time, leaning back on the tyre of the bike he’d just serviced. He knees knocked against Jin’s. “Yeah, I know about that. What, you think you beat me at the last tournament? Bet everythin’s real hazy around then, huh?”

Things were often hazy in Jin’s thoughts. It was true that-… What had happened? He remembered the fight hadn’t been going well for him.

“You totally broke the rules, Kazama, but since you’re a darlin’ of the Mishima family, someone up there cut you some slack, and since I couldn’t continue ‘n’ all, after our more private sparrin’ match-”

Jin felt so cold. He couldn’t meet Hwoarang’s eyes. “P… private?”

“Guess I gotta spell it out for ya, since ya really can’t remember, huh?”

Jin looked up slowly at Hwoarang through the fall of his fringe. He was afraid. He was really afraid now. He’d thought that by shutting himself in the Zaibatsu Tower he at least would keep his friends from befalling any harm at the hands of…

“I beat you fair ’n’ square, Kazama. Lights go down and I’m still drinkin’ in the moment – I can’t believe I’ve finally won my rematch, and after you just tried to push past ‘n’ ignore me like I was nothin’ as well – yeah I’m holdin’ that against you too. Well, lights go down, shows over, crowds leave. I’m in blissful heaven, though I come down enough to be worried that you’re still out cold. I kicked you hard, but not that hard, you know. I come over to see you and…”

Jin’s eyes had wandered during the story, they snapped back to Hwoarang now. The playful tone Hwoarang had taken had got lost somewhere. He was looking off to one side, and Jin could read something uncomfortable in his limbs. Something that looked a lot like fear.

“Y-… well, your… your eyes were…” Jin clenched his hands as he watched Hwoarang stammer around those words. “Haha… uh, they were yellow. Then you just sort of… got up, and picked me up like I weighed nothin’…” Hwoarang touched his throat. He swallowed, caught up in his memory. Jin’s gut had tightened so much it hurt, he couldn’t take his eyes off Hwoarang. “Well,…” Hwoarang laughed nervously. “Let’s just say, you won round two, and I wasn’t in any position to be continuin’ on in the tournament, so they put you through to the next round insteada me.”

Jin’s eyes finally dropped. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands hung between, fingers just touching one another. They shook. Hwoarang placed his hand on Jin’s.

“And you wonder why I didn’t tell ya?” He did that thing again with his head, where he tilted it all the way to try and look up into the expression Jin was doing his best to hide.

“I’m sorry,” Jin said. He would rather have remained silent, but he hated the way Hwoarang was the one who’d been hurt and was immediately trying to comfort _him_. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I-… I had no idea. I just-… Lots of things have been faded. I don’t remember lots of things that happen. And sometimes my dreams get mixed in. I didn’t know I’d really-… I’m so sorry I-”

“Jin.” Hwoarang’s hand tightened on his. “I didn’t tell you to make you feel like shit. I told you because I want you to know that _I_ know there’s more goin’ on with you, and I came here anyway. I wanted you to know I didn’t get scared off by some… whatever that was, and by the way, more importantly, that I didn’t hold your win-stealin’ against you, ‘cause huh – horns and wings is one thing, but pinchin’ a guy’s place in the Iron Fist Tournament is a whole other kettle o' fish.”

The hand on his was his only anchor in the whole of the sea. Jin’s breath was uneven and his eyes blinked treacherously. “S… sorry about that too,” he said quietly.

“Yeah! Just think! Maybe I woulda gone on to win that tournament, and get the Zaibatsu. Then it’d be you down here bein’ the mechanic, tryna paint my orange bikes black!”

“D-… definitely doing you a f-… favour. They’d… look terrible in orange…”

“Y’know, I’m kinda surprised at your self-control in not paintin’ roarin’ flames down the sides of these.” He wrapped the knuckles of his free hand on the bike behind.

Jin brushed his eyes roughly on the back of his hand. He could see Hwoarang pretending not to notice.

“Flames… didn’t seem very professional…”

“You did want flames, didn’t ya. Confess to your closest bud, come on, I got you. You did want to paint your bikes all with really big flames down the side, didn’t ya.” Jin nodded miserably. “Now, that weren’t so hard, was it.” Hwoarang interlocked his fingers with Jin’s. “Now, tell me the rest,” he said. His voice dropped easily back into that softer, more serious tone.

Jin fixed his gaze on the puddles of oil and their dark rainbows. He swallowed and took a deep breath.

“I thought I was saving the world.” Jin bowed his chin to his chest, not daring to look up. “That thing you saw me turn into… it is a curse. My father is cursed like this too. There was a prophesy about getting rid of the curse from both of us, and about defeating the great evil it originally came from. The evil would awaken some day, and destroy everything, but if I awoke it sooner, then someone with its curse could destroy it for all time. But it would only wake up when it felt all the earth consumed with war and chaos. I didn’t know what to do… But then… I-… I thought: there are so many evil corporations out there… and so many evil governments… Would it be so bad if they all fought each other? Maybe ordinary people would be freed from them if they destroyed each other? And at the same time the demon-”

“ _Demon?_ ”

“Y-… yes… The demon would awaken, and I could kill it. I could kill it, do the world a favour, and destroy my and Kazuya’s power. It didn’t seem like such a terrible idea at first…”

“Kazama.” Hwoarang’s voice was cold. Jin shivered when he heard it. He realised Hwoarang’s hand was still warm and entwined with his though. It gave him the courage to look at his friend. “Governments fightin’ governments? Corporations fightin’ corporations? Kid, get real. When was the last time you saw Mishima Kazuya with an AK, poppin’ out the top of a tank? Damn, I hope I haven’t doomed us all with that imagery, there’s a terrifyin’ thought. But point stands – I bet you ain’t seen your old man do anythin’ but sip whiskey this whole conflict. Know any soldiers, Kazama?”

Jin had already realised where this was going part way through what Hwoarang was saying. “… Yes,” he said, dejected.

“What soldiers do ya know, Kazama?”

“… You.”

“Did I wanna join the fuckin’ army?”

“… No.”

“No. I didn’t wanna fight no wars for some rich bastard a thousand miles away. And the Kazama Jin I met in Busan wasn’t so slicked smooth by the Mishima way o’ doin’ things that he woulda ever wanted to either. _People_ die, Kazama. The nobodies. How can I put it any more clear for you? You’re the government, Kazama. You ain’t never gonna die out there on some front line, no matter what you order. I’m one of those people you’re condemnin’. That’s the difference between us. You joined the people who’re gonna be untouchable, and I’m still here at the bottom, where I’ll be fodder.”

“Hwoarang, I wouldn’t ever let that happen, I-”

“ _Let_ that happen? Kazama, hear yourself! You even sound like a Mishima! Don’t make no mistake, I don’t wanna go where you are! I want you to get back down to earth with the rest of us. I’m here because I know you got a Yakushima heart. You’re not born into that entitled way o’ thinkin’. I got a chance with you. I got a chance to put a stop to all this. So...” Hwoarang squeezed his hand, prompting Jin to cautiously look at him again. “What can I do to get you to leave all this ‘n’ run away with me.” Jin’s eyes went wide. His cheeks heated up and the tip of his nose went scarlet. “Uh… I mean, so we can get back to regular sparrin’ and all. Stop the war – get back to the normal fightin’.” Jin’s mouth seemed to be hanging slightly open. “What?” Hwoarang asked him. He blew hair out of his face and looked away. He had gone as red as his hair.

Jin still just stared at him. He only just now noticed that they were sitting very close, with Hwoarang’s legs resting idly against his, whilst their hands held one another fast. Jin wondered if he should extract himself from the situation. Under the intense conversation it had felt very natural, but now it was just… kind of…

“Kazama, I swear, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’m gonna do it for you. You’re just sittin’ there with your gob open like some whale stuck on a beach.”

Jin’s mind had already been reeling, and it now did a dual split into a memory where he and his mother had in fact helped a village roll a landed whale back into the sea, and a more imaginary route where he wondered how exactly Hwoarang intended to shut his mouth for him and whether it might involve-

“Kazama, you’re still gawkin’ at me. Fine, you got no one to blame but yourself then.” Hwoarang leaned forward, braced an arm against Jin’s chest, and planted his mouth over his.

Hwoarang’s lips on his were firm and insistent. Jin’s head was pressed against the bike behind. The smell of oil melded with grease and hung near. Light winked off a silver wing mirror above him and the angular bike frame pushed into the ridges of his spine. The jangle of Hwoarang’s spurs spinning somewhere was soft in the air. The belts all laced up Hwoarang’s thighs were rough against Jin’s inner leg. Hwoarang’s breath was hot in his mouth. Jin closed his eyes and let himself feel it all. The far away world with its faceless deaths and macrocosmic worries shattered for him then. Everything felt closer and more real and suddenly grounded. As soon as Hwoarang’s lips pressed against his, and his breath was near, and his tongue darted into his mouth, it was like riots of flavour entering a bland and tasteless existence. Colour was awakened into places that for so long had been grey. Jin felt Hwoarang push a hand back through his hair and he sighed against the calming touch. He was kissed harder, and a tongue sought out his, curling around it, intrigued, curious, reverent. Jin remembered the first time he’d walked into Hon-Maru and the way the morning light came through and hit the gold bodhisattvas, lighting the temple up like a furnace, all ablaze with a glory that made worship in that place seem fitting and necessary and his heart feel full. Somehow Hwoarang did that with just a kiss.

Hwoarang broke off the somewhat messy exchange. He was panting slightly. He pulled back a bit, with a look in his eye that was wary.

“Realisin’ I might be oversteppin’ some boundaries here…” He said in that awkward voice usually reserved for when Baek had told him to apologise to someone.

“When you kiss me, you put light inside of me.”

This time, Hwoarang’s jaw fell open. He cheeks turned a brilliant red, and disbelief blinked in his eyes. “K-kazama, what the-… who the hell says that to a guy that just kissed ‘em??”

Jin frowned. “I don’t know what people say when they kiss each other. I just had to tell you what was true.”

“T-true? K-Kazama, I swear-…” Jin didn’t hear what Hwoarang swore though, because his friend went silent, and swallowed and just looked at him with eyes that couldn’t quite believe.

Jin reached out for him. He didn’t really know the right social conventions for whatever was happening, but Hwoarang was a life-raft and he’d been in a storm at sea for so long. He caught Hwoarang by his collar and pulled him against him, then put his arms around him and held on. They were a tangle of limbs between the motorbikes and Jin’s shirt was certainly ruined now.

“This is very uncomfortable…” Hwoarang’s voice came muffled from where his face was being pressed to Jin’s chest. He wriggled in Jin’s grasp and turned himself around so that sat between his legs. He leaned back on him and gave a heavy sigh.

Jin re-wrapped his arms around him and held on. He rested his cheek on top of Hwoarang’s head.

“Watch the hair,” Hwoarang gave him a sullen rebuke. “You’ll mess it up.”

“This is it not messed up?”

“Wow, Poetry Jin lasted all of one minute. It’s back to insults now, huh?”

“I wasn’t-… I didn’t say anything poetic, I just-”

“You just speak and the poems come out, huh?”

“W-what? No…”

A quiet fell. There was just them, and the bikes, and the concrete, and the oil, and the dust suspended in beams of light, and the tools spread forgotten on the floor about them. Jin didn’t want the moment to break. He wanted to stay right here, like a paused cassette, with time held back. He wanted to not think about the future, or even five minutes from now. He wanted to not think about wars and corporations and the curse in his own veins.

“What should I do?” he asked quietly.

Hwoarang didn’t say anything at first. He usually had a fast-talking response for everything.

“Well, I ain’t no expert, but not wakin’ up a fuckin’ demon seems like a good start.”

“To destroy it though…”

“What, in case when it wakes up ‘n’ hundreds of thousands end up dead? Kinda doin’ its job for it, ain’t ya.”

Jin bit his lip and went silent. He could feel Hwoarang’s pulse as he held him to him.

“It might remove this devil curse from me, and-”

“Jin.” Jin could hear the disapproval in Hwoarang’s voice without having to see his face. “I know you’re not so gone off the deep end as to really think what benefits you is worth that many dead.”

“It’s not just a benefit to me! My curse is a danger to everyone! And Kazuya’s too! He runs one of the world’s largest corporations, with a military that-”

“Jin, my guy, I love you, but you have a brain the size of pea sometimes. No one even knew who your old man was before this war started, now they’re heraldin’ him as the world’s hero, because _you’re_ so clearly the villain here. You’ve given him a helluva lot more power than he had. And that corporation he’s head of – my resistance has reliable intel that before all this, it pretty much only did genetics research. They’ve kitted out for a war because they had to – because you pushed them to it. You’re stokin’ up fires that weren’t even there, and you can’t even see it!”

Jin was having a hard time processing all that, because his apparently pea-sized brain had ceased functioning at the words ‘I love you’. He tried to ignore that as a slip and focus on the rest.

“You don’t understand, I just forced Kazuya out of the shadows! He would have been striving for war and domination anyway, and with no one to oppose him! That’s why I had to take the Zaibatsu, otherwise he would have come for it, and no one could have stopped him!”

“Jin, you don’t start a world war because you fell out with your old man! Get real here, because you’re startin’ to piss me off!” Hwoarang leaned his head all the way back against Jin’s chest, and glared at him upside down. Despite the gravity of the conversation, the sight of it shaved the edge off Jin’s fears and warmed him. “Quit smilin’, I’m bein’ serious!” Hwoarang huffed. “Did you even exhaust all your options? Did you try talkin’ to Kazuya?”

“You can’t talk to the Mishimas,” Jin said, breaking eye contact. That look Hwoarang was giving him was stacking all his conflicting emotions too high. “Didn’t you hear what my Grandfather did to me? And Kazuya is no better. I have a responsibility to-”

“A responsibility to not just be another Mishima, and a worse one at that.”

Jin’s fingers curled into fists. His temper simmered. Anger burned lowly in him for the first time in their exchange. Hwoarang pushed out of his arms and turned to face him. His expression was strange.

“You gonna leave me at death’s door again?” He asked quietly. Jin glared at him, confused but still irate. There was fear in Hwoarang’s eyes, but a resigned kind, like it had come to terms with whatever was to come. “Your arms. You got markings like that last time, when I thought you were gonna kill me.”

Jin looked down and saw the devil scrawl inked up his bare arms. Cursed black curls interlaced up his skin. Fear stuck in his throat and dried his mouth. If that thing got out-… If it took control and did as it pleased here-… Last time it had nearly killed Hwoarang. The black marks spread from his arms to his chest. His fears only seemed to intensify the swirling marks. He swallowed and tried to push all those thoughts from him. He reached for the old serenity of Yakushima. But he’d burned Yakushima. That creature had burned it. He’d seen charred tree stumps stretching around him for miles. He could feel the marks moving over his skin writing themselves onto his face. He needed just a moment of peace, a serenity to draw on, just a brief thing. Brief like a kiss.

His anger slumped, and his fears faded. His energy was spent, and he hunched over his knees. The black marks retreated. His shoulders shook, but only with remnant grief. The kind of grief unattached to any particular event, and that just comes with exhaustion. His head drooped. He watched as his tears splattered on the concrete floor.

Hwoarang entwined his hand in his hair and stroked his head.

“We’re gettin’ out o’ here, okay? We’re gettin’ on this extremely well-serviced bike and ridin’ into the sunset.”

Jin tried to control his voice enough to get a word out. He gave up trying to hide his broken breathing and soft, muted sobs.

“B-but, K-Kazuya…”

“Let him fuckin’ have it all, if that’s what he wants. You think we’ll stop fightin’? No way we’ll stop. Me ‘n’ you never been good at stoppin’ fightin’. We’ll take the fight right to his doorstep if we have to, but it’ll be on our terms. Not like this.” Jin leaned forward and rested his forehead against Hwoarang’s chest. Hwoarang kept carding his fingers through his hair. “Not like this,” he said again, more quietly.

When they stood up, the parking lot felt brighter. The afternoon sun was sliding in the high windows and filling the basement with shards of light. Jin brushed his eyes on the back of his hand and picked up his long coat. He offered no more objections when Hwoarang got on the Enigma and revved up the engine. He got on behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Hold on, Kazama,” Hwoarang murmured, “I’m gettin’ you outa here.”

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Bella, who's initial idea for an rp set during TK6 inspired this fic, and to John who patiently answered many motorbike maintenance questions I had, even though they were without context and often months apart.  
> I had an idea for a story like this right after I finished Chasing Demons, but for some reason it was a long time in the writing, despite being quite short.  
> Lads give up on demons and go ride motorbikes.


End file.
